


Kinktober Day 25: Vomit

by ecrituredudesir



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Food Poisoning, Illness, Nonsexual, Other, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 23:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21169910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredudesir/pseuds/ecrituredudesir
Summary: Kinktober Day 25 PromptVomitA commission for someone on furaffinity





	Kinktober Day 25: Vomit

Lef knew something was wrong the minute the berries he’d gathered for breakfast that morning hit the pit of his stomach. He could always tell when something didn’t sit right, but there was a definite difference between a little queasiness and the sudden, overwhelming lurch of his stomach that had him curling into a near ball, trying to suppress the sudden discomfort. Before he could even move to compress himself, though, the sensation of his body rejecting what he’d eaten hit him like a punch in the stomach. Rolling over from his side where he’d started to curl up to deal with the worst of the impending sickness, he took one pathetic attempt at crawling towards the mouth of his tent, working his way forward to not make a mess of his living space, when it happened.   
  
His rather large breakfast of the mixed fruit worked its way violently up his throat, with a painfully stinging precursor of uncomfortable stomach acid that had already started to partially digest the food within. It made it worse because of the coughing that immediately came with it. A flood of hard, chunky semi-fluid worked its way up from the pit of his stomach, struggling through his throat and all that Lef could do was tilt his head down and hurl. The rough sound echoed like a cough, deep and throaty, until it was suddenly wet—and the splatter of stomach juices and crushed, chewed berries hit the bottom of his little den in excess. With the size of his meal and the leftover food in his belly that hadn’t worked its way through from the night before, it was no surprise when the first wretch and splatter of food, heavy in the way the berries tried to catch and stick in his throat, another purge was right on the heels of the last.  
  
His shoulders shook, strained with the force of the muscles working all together to purge his body of the sickly sweet lingering taste of berries, underlined with the subtle medicinal taste that he should have pegged early on as something that would make him sick. His vomit flooded the floor of his modest den, covering the soft hay and plant life he’d coated his home with for bedding. It sank deep into the softer parts, filling his nose as the bile dripped form his nostrils like a runny faucet of acid. Lef’s throat felt clogged, leaving him to gag and retch up the final chunks of berry before he took a couple of steps away on shaking, uncertain paws before he collapsed on his side to try and catch his breath, his stomach feeling as if it was twitching within his chest with how hard he’d vomited.   
  
It was only in the haze of relief that came in the few moments afterwards did he think he was actually alright now that he realized he was overestimating his capability to handle the sickness rocking through him. Almost too weak from the exhaustion of puking so much already, he wasn’t able to stand or move easily when he felt himself gag again; though the puddle running flat against the den floor was now easily wider than his frame standing, he rolled his head flat so he could vomit again, the acid burning against his throat anew as he coughed out another flood of berries. He was practically cursing himself for eating so much that morning. Lef wasn’t sure he was going to be able to stomach the taste of berries again for weeks became of this-every time he thought that he was remotely close to being done with that prolonged sensation of voiding his stomach.   
  
With the smear of stinging, crushed-berry juice running down his maw, he finally realized that he’d reached a limit to how much he could throw up. Lef’s stomach was painfully empty now, devoid of even the stomach acid that had built so far to process his meal. It left him feeling achy and sickly, his nose warm and his stomach uncomfortably bubbling and gurgling within, as if it was fully willing to put him through another difficult series of heaving and uncomfortable gagging. Flushed and uncomfortable, he waited to gather his strength, suffering through the putrid, acrid scent of his own vomit wafting heavily through his den now. He was practically shaking by the time he lifted himself up on his legs again, moving with an uncertain walk down to the river to try and wash down a lot of the burn of acid and film of puke that clung to the back of his teeth, and only afterwards did he return with some hesitation to see the mess that he had made. None of it had been intentional—no matter how badly he might have wanted to initially, there had been nothing to stop him from fighting off that wave of nausea.  
  
Even ducking his head back into the den had made him feel it almost all over again; the scent was almost impossible to stomach, but the only thing that kept him from hurling all over again was the fact only water lingered in his stomach, even if he nearly had difficulty keeping that down at this point too. He would need to replace all of his bedding that sat across the den of the floor, and with some hesitation, he began to clean up his living space again, bit by bit.  
  
Whenever he had to pick up a particularly small piece of the entwined leaves and clumps of gathered hay, he could taste the vomit clinging to each piece. Little, slow drops of chewed berries and leaves seemed to cling to each one, often dropping down and landing on parts he hadn’t cleaned out yet; it meant that he had to gingerly pull it into his mouth all over again, wincing at the way it seemed to sting and burn at his tongue. At some points, there was the unintentional moment when he would nearly choke on one of the regurgitated berries, forcing him to swallow them back down rather than just transport them with his teeth. He winced and felt that queasiness rise up again, but he didn’t seem to cough them up just yet a second time, making him wonder just which one among their numbers had been the one that had made him so violently ill in the first place.   
  
By the afternoon, Lef found himself in a marginally cleaner living area; the smell of puke still clung hesitantly to the edges of the living space, those areas where the bile and acid had fallen to the dirt beneath his coverings where he couldn’t scrape it out with his paws. The difficulty had come mostly from the fact that he _did_ wind up throwing up the water he tried so delicately to use to cleanse his palate. Every time he lost control of his stomach again, it was nearly like starting from square one with cleaning; he had very little way of telling when his stomach would decide to purge itself again, leaving him huddled in some corner of his home, vomiting and undoing most of his hard work. It took well into the afternoon before he was able to get his home back to any sort of semi-clean status, and at that point, his stomach felt like it was twisting itself in knots—or more correctly, like a towel that was trying to wring out any semblance of substance that tried to permeate it.   
  
He was feeling a bit better after the work though, and regular trips down to the river to take drinks to wash back the taste every time he would gag or cough like he would lose the barest things that he’d been able to ingest so far. He was feeling braver though-- he could leave his den to air out, and considering his stomach was growling with a force that suggested his body was all but demanding food to replace the amount he’d lost earlier, he found it impertinent to try and put something on his stomach once more.   
  
When he did venture out for food, it was for a somewhat different fare than what he’d had earlier—he stuck primarily to the vegetables that he could filch from a nearby farmer’s garden, hoping the more stocky food would keep him from going through the same risks as what the berries had brought him. Once he began to ate though, he found himself barely able to stop; he was so famished from losing much of the night before’s dinner and all of his breakfast that his stomach howled even after finishing several of the stolen goodies. Reluctant to leave his rewards behind, he went out of his way to gather a few more things off of the various vines, dragging them home with him so he could properly nibble on them.   
  
The minute he stepped back into his den, though, the smell hit him all at once again—and this time, it _did_ make him lose his stomach all over again. It was far too potent even after he’d cleaned so much of it up, and with his newest meal still settling properly on the way down rather than already secure in his digestive track, he gave a weak groan and felt it all start to well back up again. There was no chance for him to turn and move back outside. As much as he would have liked to go out of his way to go back to the river to let his sickness flow away with the stream, his stomach had already cramped painfully, making it too hard for him to even step backwards and out of his den. The last thing that he actually wanted was to make a mess all over his newly replaced bedding, but he had no option in it. With his head aimed low, far too much tension roaming through his shoulders to feasibly relax, he gave an audible, strained gag as his senses were overwhelmed with the lingering smell of vomit.   
  
The gag seemed to trigger a reaction through him, his gag reflex hit by the back of his own tongue as it rocked another muffled sound through him again. It sounded initially like he might have been choking or trying to clear his throat, but very quickly, the sound grew much wetter. The collection of bile and saliva at the back of his mouth were the first fluids to wash up again, his jaw lowered wide in anticipation of what was to come—his saliva, overproducing to try and compensate for the food that was refusing to digest down easily in his belly, dripped freely from his fangs and tongue. For a few, miserable moments it seemed as if he were trying to swallow down the coming onslaught just so he could save himself from the trouble that had been the clean up involved earlier, but there was no such luck this time.   
  
The spew of freshly chewed vegetables came much more easily that the berry counterparts had earlier; he had taken care to chew each piece carefully this time to hopefully avoid unsettling his already delicate stomach, but that had been fruitless as well. It just made the first initial choke up of thick, chunky puke like a puree rather than the difficult, larger pieces early that morning. It hit his fresh bedding like a waterfall, splattering against his paws and making all manner of mess in his home once more. The new scent burned at his nose as his bile forced its way up and through his snout once more, leaving it dripping alongside the vomit that poured from his throat.   
  
Even though he could have sworn that he hadn’t eaten nearly as much as he had that morning before getting sick, it seemed that his stomach had no gauge of how much it could hold, or had held. The more his shoulders heaved with each gag and wave of fresh puke, there only seemed to be more behind it. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes from the strain of every muscle in his upper half refusing to go slack—the tension of his own body forcing his stomach empty left him strained. To his disgust and dismay, when he finally managed to collapse down on his side, it was with no shortage of an even bigger puddle of vomit before him than what he’d left that morning, the acid-slick puddle of it dribbling and running to the very walls of his den, leaving him fully aware of the mess he’d have to clean up if he could get the strength before nightfall once more.   
  



End file.
